Wednesday, May 8, 2019

Seamus lay on his side by the banks of the stream and took
in the fullness of the May morning. Wildflowers were poking out their heads
from amongst the grass and unfurling their colors. The valley was full of the
yellow sun, and the resplendent green that only a spring day can bring; not
quite green… a sort of yellow green… a youthful green, an infant green, a green
of freshness. It gave him a feeling of innocence.

He was watching a long slow pool on the river shaded by a
willow tree. Although he could not locate a single mayfly on or over the water,
the trout were jumping into the air and performing summersaults in the air
before slipping headfirst back into their freshet realm. He had never seen
anything like it before. By twos and threes, the fish leapt into the air as if
wishing to taste the surface world’s greening. A warbler provided a woodwind
accompaniment from his perch amongst the bursting buds of the willow.

Seamus watched the trout for a few minutes, and pondered the
ballet before him. In his hand was his father’s cherished H.L. Leonard bamboo
fly rod. He turned his attention from his puzzle on the water to the handle of
the rod. The cork was stained with long use. He could discern the imprint of
his father’s thumb at the top end of the cork. He placed his thumb into the
impression and closed his eyes, his ears still attuned to the splashes of the
fish.

“Why do the trout jump?”

He thought about his father for a few minutes as the sun
warmed his face pleasantly. What would he have said? He conjured a scene from
his childhood in the old man’s study, a place of quiet and learning; a place of
science and precision. His father stood looking at a book he had carefully
taken out of the shelves buttressing the room, and easing down his glasses over
his nose, was busy lecturing Seamus on the natural world. The question never
was asked except in his imagination, but he knew the process of the answer
would take him through anatomy, weather and barometric pressure, and angler’s
streamside observations carefully recorded and now called into the courtroom to
answer the question. Another book would be opened and another passage read, the
author’s name preceding the quote, along with the date and the page number.
Seamus would be expected to listen attentively as the case was made. His father
was a lawyer, and the study in their large house in Dublin. Patrick McDermott
esq. believed in science and logic, and it served him well in the courts. He
would apply the same thorough analysis to this mystery of the trout. There
would be a reason in the end. No mystery… but an uncovering of motive and
resulting behavior. The fish would be subjected to the psychology of the
individual and the group, and there would be a solution. The book would then be
shut.

What that solution was, eluded Seamus’ daydreams for now, as
ethereal as the memory of his father’s voice, and the smoke from his pipe as
the vision dissolved in his head. He opened his eyes to the brightness of a
flowering dandelion awash in bold impressionist brushstrokes of yellow and
hints of orange; his mother’s favorite flower.

Mary McDermott loved God’s world and his works. She once
told a young Seamus, (awash in stains from crawling through the grass and
garden in the front lawn of their Dublin home), that “Dandelions were God’s
paintbrushes.” He could see in his mind’s eye the ochre streaks on his boy’s
pants held up with suspenders. He had felt that the stains were something bad;
something he would be punished for, and had looked on his mother through tears
of questioning guilt.

Whatever his mother said to him that day, and every other
day she encouraged him or explained something, the focus would be God. Mary’s
world was one of faithful contentment. There was a reason and a will behind
every breath, every leaf that fell, every bird that sang, every bruise, and
bloody knee; that of the Lord and his plan. We could not question with anger
the stubbed toes of life, nor curse the road’s turns when they turned away from
us, for man was the center of a plan in God’s garden, and there was a reason
for everything; one that would include stories and fairy-tales and passages
from the Bible as she combed his hair or mended his torn shirt. What the answer
would be in the end would be sweet and simple, but remain a defined mystery.
Her smile and the sense of comfort in that mystery was in complete contrast to
his father’s academic approach, yet love and security warmed the young Seamus.

Mary would have said that the trout jump because it is God’s
will. There would be a profound rightness and peace in her answer.

As Seamus’ eyes opened upon the banks of the stream, his
left hand brushed against a tiny wildflower opening its purple petals to stare
up at him. Purple was his little sister Rose’s favorite color, despite her
name. She always wore a purple ribbon in her long strawberry-blonde hair as she
followed him through his daily adventures. She was his favorite, and he was
hers. She was as happy as he was inquisitive, his dark curly hair and brows
contrasting with her round apple dimples and tiny white teeth. He made up
stories for her full of knights and ladies, castles among the garden and frog
princes at the edge of the little pond bordered with primrose. She listened and
smiled… and always laughed.

He had visited her in her house in County Claire, married
now and with a daughter and son of her own. The children taking them back to
their youth in Dublin with their antics, and reminding them of stories they
shared over a wine made with those dandelions of youth and crisp as their memories.
Her smile and innocent exuberance had never changed. They had instead just
grown larger with age and beauty.

Seamus recalled the day when he (ten years old and feeling
ten feet tall and full of imagined manhood) had in response to a question posed
by Rose as to why a lark, perching in a lilac bush was singing. He was doing
his best to embody his father, and the answer was scientific and clinical;
something about mating and territory. His voice filled with importance.

Rose had laughed and threw a handful of grass into his hair.
She replied “No, silly! He is singing because he is happy!”

He opened his eyes. The trout were still jumping. Where
science and religion only began to illuminate and uncover the beauty of a
simple answer, innocence prevailed. She was right… the trout jumped because
they were happy!

He was happy too, he thought aloud, as he bit off the fly at
the end of his leader, never having wet a line that morning, but instead
gathered wildflowers in his wicker creel for a love somewhere that awaited that
perfect innocence he now felt.

The Classical Angler

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"If angling is the contemplative sport, as Mr. Walton would have us understand, that contemplation should not be on the final destination, but upon the path that led us there. Let that path not be the easy one nor the commonplace, but one of inner discovery and learning, for that much the better when the fish is finally brought to hand." Erik Helm

"“If the world were clear, art would not exist.” Albert Camus

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A quiet rest stop for we anglers who enjoy tradition and literary effort, and a site that intends to inspire, question, and spur thinking.

There is power in words, and art in the angling which we need to appreciate. as we journey through the riffles of life, never forget the art and the approach are as important as the fish brought to hand.If you like this blog, please tell others about it and link to it.

Comment from the archives: This is the greatest writing on fly-fishing I have ever read since the stories of Traver and MacQuarrie. Your use of analogies and the romance and reference to art are one of a kind. Keep writing and keep this art alive please!